Watcher in the Woods (Rockton #4)(20)

The thump of boots on wood cuts me off. It’s the sound of someone climbing onto a porch, coming from Garcia’s direction.

There’s only one house past this one, and it’s empty. It’s been empty since I moved in with Dalton—

“April,” Anders whispers.

Oh, shit. That house is not empty.

We both take off at a run. Garcia is on my old porch, raising his fist.

“Hey!” I shout. “Get away from that house.”

Garcia pounds on the wooden door. The sound echoes in the quiet morning.

“She won’t answer,” Anders murmurs beside me. “I was very clear on that. She’s not supposed to answer unless one of us announces ourselves.”

Garcia bangs again. We’re almost there when a figure emerges from the forest, running full tilt toward my old house. It’s Dalton, and I swear he’s breathing fire.

“Eric—!” I begin, to tell him it’s okay, we have this under control.

Anders’s hand lands on my shoulder, cutting me off. “At this point, it’s probably best we just let him do his thing.”

Garcia is lifting his fist to knock again when Dalton hits him. Garcia staggers. Dalton grabs him by the shirt front and throws him clear through the railing, the wood cracking and splintering.

Garcia thuds onto the ground below. Before the marshal can even start to rise, Dalton is off the porch and on him. Behind me, footsteps pound, and I turn to see the onlookers from earlier, having caught up with us, ignoring the militia’s orders to get back. This spectacle is too entertaining to miss, even if it earns them a few days of chopping duty.

Dalton lets Garcia stagger to his feet, and our sheriff stands there, fists clenched, waiting for it. If Garcia had an ounce of brains, he’d see that look in Dalton’s eyes and surrender. You win, Sheriff. Now let’s talk.

Garcia swings. Dalton blocks and hits him with a right hook to the jaw. Garcia slams into a tree. The marshal recovers, massaging his jaw, looking like he’s ready to give up. Dalton straightens, as if he’s falling for it, but when Garcia swings, he grabs him by the arm and throws him into the side of my house.

Dalton’s bearing down on Garcia when my front door opens. April rushes onto the porch. She sees the two men and her mouth forms an “Oh!” Then she’s quick-stepping back inside when she spots the others: Anders and the militia and the half-dozen local onlookers.

April wears my oversized sweatshirt and a pair of my track pants, but even if I wasn’t standing ten feet away, there’s no chance anyone would mistake her for me. Her eyes round, and she darts back inside.

I jog toward the house. I glance at Anders, who motions for me to go on, they can handle this. The fight hasn’t stopped for April’s intermission. Neither man seemed to realize the door opened. Blows have been traded. Garcia’s nose streams blood, and his shirt is torn. There’s a smear of dirt on Dalton’s face, where one of Garcia’s swings made contact. I’m about to go inside when Dalton shakes his left arm.

His left arm. Shit. His injured dominant arm.

I glance at Anders, but he’s already seen it, and he’s jogging toward the men.

“Hey, boss,” Anders says. “You want this guy in lockup? Or you waiting to put him in the infirmary?”

Dalton snorts and moves back. “Yeah, lock him up.”

I open the front door. As I’m stepping through, Anders goes after Garcia while Dalton bears down on the assembled gawkers, now dispersing quickly.

I close the door behind me. April’s on my sofa.

“I’m sorry,” she says, and that stops me dead. Even makes me check over my shoulder, certain my sister is apologizing to someone behind me.

“I heard a commotion, and I thought the patient was in distress.” She pauses, and then adds, “Kenny,” as if she had to recall his name. “I thought that’s why someone was banging on my door. It didn’t occur to me that anyone would be up this early.”

I say nothing. I can’t tell her it’ll be all right. I have no idea how to handle this, and considering what’s happening with Garcia, this wrinkle is the last thing on my mind. It’s more than a wrinkle, though. We’ve smuggled my sister into Rockton. I don’t even want to consider the implications of that.

“Kenny’s fine,” I say. “This is a whole other situation, and I need you to stay inside. Lock the doors. Don’t open them unless it’s me or Will.”

She nods, and then gives herself a shake, throwing off the confusion of sleep. She stands, straightening, and when she speaks, there’s a snap in her voice I know well.

“They are being ridiculous,” she says. “The council or whatever you called them. You had a man in serious need of medical attention, for a spinal injury, and your sister is a neurosurgeon. They should be grateful that the”—she flutters her hands—“stars aligned. What is the chance of that? And the fact that they don’t have a full-time medical doctor is breathtakingly irresponsible. I cannot believe you allow such a situation, Casey.”

“Breathtakingly irresponsible is my middle name.”

She gives me such a frown that I half-expect her to say, I thought it was Analyn. Instead, she waves it off and says, “Your town needs a doctor.”

“Are you volunteering?”